Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “Does that seem weird to you?” I asked.

  “Families …,” Jack mumbled and shrugged it off.

  “I keep wondering who would murder a B&B owner, and why?” I said. “Did she have a partner in the business? A dispute with the locals in Lake Arrowhead? Other B&B owners in the area who weren’t happy with more competition?”

  “I got the report from the office a few minutes ago.” Jack pulled out his phone, scanning as he swiped through the screens. “Local merchants were glad to have another business going in. The property had been in the family for years. No squabbles with the neighbors. No problems with the construction crews refurbishing the house.”

  Huh. Not exactly any red hot clues there.

  “Did you get anything useful from Rosalind?” Jack asked.

  I didn’t want to tell him that—again—I’d come up with basically nothing helpful, so I went with what little I knew.

  “I definitely got a weird vibe from her about Elita’s murder,” I said. “It seems strange to me that Rosalind wasn’t with Elita at the labyrinth walk. When I asked Rosalind about it, she was evasive.”

  Jack seemed unimpressed, but he kept listening.

  “I guess they could have had a blow-up,” I said. “Rosalind wasn’t happy about the fuss Elita was causing over the impromptu cooking demo she wanted done in the exhibit hall. Add that to Elita screwing her over by insisting she keep to their agreement about working at the B&B, preventing her from the opportunity of a lifetime with that food show. Maybe what started out as a simple argument grew into something worse.”

  “Do you think Rosalind is capable of murder? Physically capable?”

  Rosalind was kind of soft around the middle and she wasn’t very tall. But surely she’d worked up some good arm muscles with all that stirring, whipping, and lifting she’d been doing in the kitchen. Swinging that shovel at Elita’s head with enough force to kill her wouldn’t have been hard.

  “I think she is,” I said. “Plus, she has a heck of a motive.”

  We were both quiet for a moment, both thinking over the possibility. I wanted to ask Jack if he’d made progress on the theft of the messenger bags—yes, my brain had rushed ahead—but his phone chirped. He glanced at it, gave me an apologetic eyebrow bob, and took off.

  The corridor was kind of empty because the workshop was still going on. No way did I want to go there and catch the end of the presentation. I’d already spoken with Olivia and Rosalind, my two suspects, and gotten nothing. Jack hadn’t offered anything new. What the heck was I supposed to do now?

  Then it hit me.

  Oh, crap. Guess I’d have to do some real work.

  I checked my phone and saw several text messages from Priscilla. Swiping past the ones asking for an update on the conference, I found the one she’d sent with the name of the planner who was taking care of my events while I was here.

  Yikes! Nadine? Priscilla had assigned Nadine to look after my clients and events?

  Okay, really, I didn’t know Nadine very well—but that was no reason not to like her. I’d run into her a few times in the office breakroom and, of course, seen her in meetings. She was a few years younger than me, with auburn hair and green eyes, and dressed in fabulous clothes and accessories, as required by L.A. Affairs.

  She’d started out in the cube farm, doing—well, I don’t know exactly what they do there. Accounting, supply requisition, something. But she’d blasted her way up the ranks quickly and now, it seemed, Priscilla was giving her a shot at event planning by subbing for me.

  Event planners made a higher salary than the gals in the cube farm, we got awesome perks, plus it was a more prestigious position, and—a personal favorite of mine—planners could leave the office whenever we wanted to, claiming it was to meet a client or a vendor.

  From the rumors I’d heard about Nadine—I hadn’t started any of them, but depending on how she managed my events, now I might have to—she was really aggressive, not at all particular about whose toes she stepped on, or overly concerned about the quality of her work.

  No way did I want my events to be the office crash test dummies for an up-and-coming planner.

  It occurred to me that maybe this was a compliment. Maybe Priscilla knew that all of my events were up-to-date and wouldn’t need much monitoring while I was gone, and that’s why she’d put a newbie in charge of them.

  Compliment or not, it didn’t sit well with me, but I decided I could give her a chance.

  I called Nadine. She answered, and when I identified myself she immediately put me on hold.

  “I just got off the phone with the Drakes,” Nadine said, when she came back on the line. “I think I’ve got them settled down. Don’t worry.”

  Don’t worry? Why should I worry? Everything for their fortieth wedding anniversary party and their fifty guests was handled.

  “Here’s what I think should happen,” Nadine went on. “Since they met in India all those years ago, I want them to enter the party riding elephants.”

  She wanted them to—what?

  “It will be memorable,” Nadine said.

  “It will be irresponsible.” I might have said that kind of loud. “The Drakes are seniors. Mrs. Drake just recovered from hip replacement surgery.”

  “My personal ethos is to think outside of the lines on these events,” Nadine told me.

  “It’s an outrageous idea,” I said. “Don’t even mention this to the Drakes.”

  “I’ll run it by Priscilla.”

  “No. Don’t—”

  Nadine hung up.

  Crap.

  Immediately, I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle Nadine. That wasn’t possible, so I accessed my contacts list and tapped on Priscilla’s number.

  No way was I going to let Nadine hijack my carefully thought out and well-orchestrated events—especially for a fantastic couple like the Drakes. Priscilla’s voicemail picked up. Tempted as I was to leave a scathing message—at the top of my lungs—I didn’t think it would be in the best interest of my long-term employment to blast the office manager with her incompetent choice of replacement.

  Call me crazy.

  I hung up.

  Still, I had to do something

  I was tempted to send a text to Kayla, telling her about the situation. She was still in the workshop and I knew she’d leave immediately—my kind of friend. But if she left in the middle of it, how was she going to be able to tell me what it was about when Priscilla asked?

  I decided to walk off some of my upset and found myself in the exhibit hall. I wandered through the aisles, pretending to look at the booths. At the back of the room I saw that hottie Zander coming out of a discreet hallway that I figured led to the stockroom, pushing a cart loaded with boxes of supplies for the vendors. He smiled when he saw me. The Severin training must be some heavy duty indoctrination. Zander seemed to be easily handling the endless job of fetching and carrying for the vendors by himself—I hadn’t seen anyone but him working the hall—yet he always seemed happy to do so.

  Weird, huh?

  I kept walking and spotted Elita’s B&B booth. No one was there. At the L.A. Affairs booth, Mindy stood at her post, talking with a man I’d never seen before.

  I figured him for fiftyish, dressed in a well-cut though not terribly expensive suit. He had carefully groomed gray hair and a mustache inspired, no doubt, by Magnum P.I. cruising Oahu in Robin’s Ferrari.

  “Oh, here’s one of our top planners now,” Mindy announced as she gestured to me. “Come over, Hannah. Meet Charles.”

  “It’s Haley,” I said, politely, as I stopped next to the man. “And you’re Charles? Really?”

  He smiled. “Charles Kent. A pleasure to meet you, Haley.”

  Charles spoke with one of those kind-of British accents that made a person sound witty, charming, and knowledgeable, no matter what comment was made.

  Maybe I should work on developing one of those.

  “Charles owns a hotel chain,” Min
dy blurted out. Her cheeks were pink and her breathing was a little ragged. “A boutique chain catering to a highly exclusive clientele. Very successful.”

  “You’re too kind, Mindy,” he said and gave her a gracious grin.

  Her cheeks grew redder.

  “L.A. Affairs certainly got a choice spot for your booth,” Charles said, glancing around. His expression clouded when his gaze landed on the B&B booth. “Though if it were me, I’d question the location, given recent events.”

  Charles’s comment flew over Mindy’s head, but it smacked me hard in the face.

  “You heard about Elita?” I asked.

  “From an acquaintance, not anyone affiliated with the conference,” Charles said. “Frankly, I was surprised to see Elita here, but not surprised by what happened to her.”

  If I’d had this-could-be-a-smoking-hot-clue antenna, they would have sprouted out of my head and wiggled.

  Just as I was formulating my I-need-more-dirt follow-up question, Mindy waved and announced, “Oh, look. Here’s another one of our planners.”

  Kayla muscled between Charles and me, clutching her phone.

  “We have to go, Haley,” she told me, then lowered her voice. “It’s Priscilla.”

  I glanced at her phone.

  “We have to go,” she said, her eyes bulging. “Now.”

  “Excuse us,” I managed to say as I hurried after her.

  “She just sent me another text,” Kayla said, as we bobbed and weaved through the aisles and into the main corridor, now crowded with attendees. “About the live feed of the workshop.”

  There’s a live feed?

  “Priscilla saw it.”

  Priscilla could see it?

  “She’s not happy.”

  Oh, crap.

  “She wants us both on a conference call,” Kayla said. “Now.”

  I followed Kayla to a somewhat quiet corner of the main corridor, out of the flow of men and women, but before she could draw a breath, Rosalind broke out of the crowd and hurried over.

  “I … I need to talk to you,” Rosalind said.

  Kayla gave her major stink-eye.

  Rosalind leaned closer. “It’s … it’s about Elita’s … you know.”

  Oh my God. Was Rosalind about the hit me with a major clue? A confession?

  “Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

  Kayla turned her stink-eye on me. I ignored her.

  Rosalind stepped away and I followed. She wrung her hands and fidgeted. I glanced back at Kayla. She gestured to her phone and upped her stink-eye to mega stink-eye.

  “I know you think I was involved with … with what happened to Elita,” Rosalind said, barely above a whisper.

  “Were you?” I asked.

  “Well, actually ….” Rosalind gulped. “I’m glad she’s gone.”

  Chapter 9

  Kayla stomped over, waving her phone.

  “I’ve got Priscilla,” she hissed. “She’s demanding to know why she didn’t see us in the live feed from the workshop that just ended.”

  “The second workshop? Didn’t you go?”

  “I thought you were going,” she said.

  “I thought you were going.

  Oh, crap.

  “She claims she didn’t see us,” Kayla said. “She said we weren’t asking questions, circulating through the room, networking, chatting up other vendors, talking up L.A. Affairs.”

  Okay, like I had time for this.

  I had Rosalind standing two feet away, possibly ready to confess to murder. No way did I have time to deal with Priscilla over this morning’s dumbass workshop.

  Kayla was, understandably, bordering on total panic mode. Me, not at all. Dealing well with confrontation was one of the things I did best.

  I thought of it as my superpower.

  I channeled my beauty-queen mom’s I’m-better-than-you attitude, which had helped me get out of many a tight spot in the past.

  Hard to believe, but yes, occasionally Mom was helpful.

  I grabbed Kayla’s phone.

  “Priscilla, I’m appalled you would question our participation in the workshop,” I said, in my now-I’m-going-to-run-you-over voice.

  She said something, but I ignored her.

  “We were seated at the rear of the room,” I told her. “It’s my policy to sit in that location to observe the crowd and to evaluate the presentation based on the responses of the audience.”

  Priscilla tried to speak again. I kept rolling.

  “Frankly, I’m not surprised you didn’t see us,” I told her. “I questioned the quality of their video equipment as soon as I walked into the room, and was disappointed by the technology in use. In fact, I have serious doubts about staging an event here at Severin. A number of attendees I’ve conferred with have made similar comments.”

  That last part wasn’t true, but oh well.

  Priscilla made some kind of noise, but I ignored her.

  “As for your comment about us networking on behalf of L.A. Affairs, your concerns are premature,” I went on. “I never consider blindly approaching other vendors, not until I’ve taken their measure, evaluated their ethics, and determined that they are the caliber of associates worthy of doing business with L.A. Affairs.”

  Priscilla didn’t say anything.

  “The management staff sent Kayla and me here because of our expertise,” I said. “We are, in fact, networking with other vendors, finding the truth, not simply accepting what’s explained in the workshops. Anyone can sit through a workshop, but I’ve determined that isn’t good enough for L.A. Affairs, and I am proceeding in that vein.”

  It took everything I had not to keep going.

  When I’m on a roll, I’m really on a roll.

  “Well … all right,” Priscilla said, in total back-down mode. “I can see you have things under control.”

  “Of course we do,” I told her.

  “Just … just keep me updated,” she said.

  “Frankly, Priscilla, all of this texting you’re doing is intrusive and disruptive,” I said. “I’ll keep you updated, as time permits.”

  I ended the call and, somehow, kept myself from doing a fist pump and Snoopy happy dance combo.

  Kayla and Rosalind both stared at me with their mouths open.

  “I’m kind of afraid of you now,” Rosalind mumbled. “But in a good way.”

  “Wow, awesome,” Kayla said.

  I handed Kayla’s phone back to her. “Please tell me there’s not another workshop starting now.”

  “Lunch in the main dining room. I’m heading for the bar,” she said, and took off.

  I wished I could go with her but Rosalind was still standing at my elbow and I couldn’t let her get away without questioning her.

  The crowd in the corridor thinned out, thanks to the big rush to the dining room for lunch. Rosalind glanced around, then leaned a little closer.

  “I have to talk to you about Elita’s … about what happened to her,” she said softly. “You think I’m involved, don’t you? You think I had something to do with it.”

  I could have pounced on her, peppered her with questions and accusations—especially while I was still on a high from putting the smack-down on Priscilla—but I knew I had to handle Rosalind differently.

  “Do you have an alibi?” I asked, in my I’m-on-your-side voice.

  “I was in my room … alone,” she said. “I needed to get away.”

  “From Elita?” I asked.

  I remembered how Elita had presented Rosalind like a trophy in a big game hunt to everybody they encountered, and had thrown a complete fit about changing her booth for Rosalind’s cooking demo.

  “Elita could be kind of … you know, a little pushy,” Rosalind admitted.

  “More than a little?” I said.

  “Well, yes. She knew I didn’t want to work at her B&B after I won the cooking championship. But she said if I didn’t, word would get out and it would be this big media firestorm, and then the network w
ould never let me be on another show, or have a show of my own.”

  “It was crappy of her not to let you out of your contract,” I said.

  Rosalind managed a small, appreciative smile.

  “Were you involved in Elita’s death?” I asked. “Did you murder her?”

  Rosalind twisted her fingers together. “I didn’t wish her any harm, despite everything.”

  “The police might see it differently,” I pointed out.

  She gasped.

  “You had motive. You knew when Elita was going through the labyrinth. You don’t have an alibi,” I said. “You look guilty.”

  Rosalind stared at me.

  I stared back.

  Rosalind kept staring.

  “I can go over it again, if you’d like,” I offered.

  Rosalind shook her head frantically. “I just wish … oh, I just wish this whole thing would go away.”

  She darted down the corridor.

  I watched as Rosalind disappeared around the corner and thought about her wish that this situation would go away. Not exactly the fiery declaration of someone capable of murder—even after everything Elita had done. But still, Rosalind hadn’t denied involvement in Elita’s death.

  As much as I wanted to head for the bar and join Kayla in a glass of wine, I needed to keep a clear head and I needed to eat. Hopefully, today’s luncheon would include something mega chocolatey for dessert.

  I wound my way through the building to the dining room crowded with dozens of circular tables that seated eight, and a podium at the front of the room. Obviously, some sort of presentation was planned after lunch was served. I’d have to eat fast so I could make my escape if the talk turned out to be boring.

  I found my designated table and joined the other men and women already seated. Introductions were made and we chatted as the food was served, a typical banquet meal of meat, veggies, hot rolls, and beverages that tasted as good as a meal can when prepared for hundreds of guests.

  Dessert was a major disappointment.

  “What? No chocolate?” I asked, eyeing the slice of apple pie the server set in front of everyone.